Losing Sight of Yourself
by JustMakeLeftTurns
Summary: "I should never be left alone with my mind for too long." - Libba Bray. Norway was. And now he doesn't know what the truth is or how to deal with his newfound love for control. Sweet, bloody, selfish control. Especially where his brother is concerned. DenNor, NorIce, implied SuFin. See warnings inside. Sequel to 'Losing Sight of What's Real'. Edited first chapter.
1. Chapter 1

EDIT: 7/23/12 – Fixed some minor stuff. Fixed the Norwegian translations, thanks to Vivaldian.

EDIT: 7/25/12 – Fixed some more Norwegian translations.

**I had a lot of ideas in my head that I really, really wanted to write, so I put them all in this story. Hence the reason why it doesn't flow as smoothly as my other NorIce stories.**

**WARNINGS: language, self-harm, insanity, depression, attempted suicide**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

OoOoOo

"_A man who is "of sound mind" is one who keeps the inner madman under lock and key."_

_**-Paul Valéry**_

OoOoOo

He's huddled in the corner of his bedroom. The blinds are closed, the lights off. His cheeks are sunken in a little, his eyes dull. His knees are drawn up to his chest. In his hands is a picture frame. The photo is of him and Iceland. Iceland is a child in the photo. He sees how young they both were. He smiles shakily. His fingers grip the frame tighter. He doesn't understand why he does so.

He studies Iceland's face. He giggles – a little too high – and thinks of the young man Iceland has grown up to be. His pudgy face is gone. He's almost as tall as he, Norway, is. He takes after him quite a bit. He doesn't like crowds. He doesn't show his emotions as often as he should. Norway's smile wavers. It's been a long time since he's seen Iceland.

He tries to think back to the last time he saw his brother. He can't remember. This realization scares him. His brother lives in Iceland year-round and never leaves unless it's for a World Conference. Norway needs to change this. Maybe he'll go visit Iceland – the landmass – someday. Yes, that's a good idea. He'll visit Iceland soon. Iceland will hate him for intruding, but won't be able to say no.

"Norge?"

He grips the picture frame tighter. His knuckles are white, white, white. His gaze doesn't move from the picture. He studies his brother, how childlike he used to be. He's going to visit Iceland soon and make him loosen up. He doesn't want his brother to be exactly like him.

He senses somewhat kneeling down beside him. He ignores the other person. Whoever it is can wait. He just wants to see his brother. He hasn't really been there for him lately. He's going to change that. He'll leave tomorrow. He'll surprise the younger man. No one ever visits Iceland. He can see the silver-haired man's joyful look in his eyes when he, Norway, takes the time to visit him, and only him. For no reason at all other than to spend time with his brother.

"Norge, this isn't healthy."

It's Denmark. He knows this when the man brings him into a sort of half-hug. He stiffens, still unused to such contact. The Dane presses a worried kiss to his head. He doesn't look up from the picture. He always forgets to visit Iceland. Not this time. He's going to see his brother this time.

"I'm going to visit Iceland," he announces. His voice is dry – when was the last time he had anything to drink? "I'll get a flight out tomorrow morning."

Denmark's hold on him strengthens. He resists crying out in pain. He knows that Denmark doesn't mean to hurt him. Besides, right now, Iceland is more important. His brother needs him, needs someone to love and care for him.

Fingers run through his hair. He leans into the touch but still focuses on the photo. Denmark kisses his cheek. He blushes. But he still doesn't respond. His brother. His brother. His brother.

"He's gone, Norge. He's as good as dead."

Memories. Memories fill his head – No! They're lies! All of them! He refuses to recall the images, forces them away. It was a dream, that's all it was. Not real. Not real. Not real. Denmark's words echo through his mind. His hands shake. His entire body is tense. The words seem to tear throughout his body.

"Nei! Han er ikke død! Han er _ikke død_! Han er ikke! Han er ikke! Han er ikke!"

He shoves Denmark away from him. How dare he say such things! How fucking dare he! Before he realizes what's happening, he's throwing punch after punch, hitting his target over and over: head, shoulders, chest, stomach, arms. He backs away when the Dane attempts to calm him, hits his head on the wall. He kicks at the other man, manages to swipe his feet out from under him. Denmark falls on his back.

He stands, a blind rage overwhelming his senses. He holds the frame in one hand, knocks over the lamp with the other. _Crash_. Rips out one of the dresser drawers, dumps the clothes, throws the drawer. _Crash_. It hits the mirror and a framed photo of him and Denmark from the wall. _Crash_. He takes the bedsheets, tears them up. Throws the pillows. Knocks over the nightstand.

It isn't until then that he realizes that he's broken the picture frame. He drops it, feels the sting of glass in his hand. Blood oozes from his hand. Some of it drips onto the photo, covers the memories captured. But all he feels is the pain. All he sees is the blood. So red. And the pain – he didn't even know he still _could_ feel pain. He licks his lips – just a quick flick of the tongue. Pain. Controllable. Why does he need control again?

"You really don't pull your punches, do you?" Denmark stands beside him, concern in his eyes. He takes Norway's hand, pulls him gently to the bathroom, cleans the wound. Norway misses the red.

"You're going to be okay, Norge," the Dane says. "It's about time you had a freak attack like that."

Why? Why did he do that? He doesn't understand why he destroyed his room. He doesn't understand much anymore. But he understands pain. And blood. He knows those two things very well. He knows how they work.

Denmark leans in, kisses him on the lips. He doesn't know what he's supposed to feel. He feels the spark, but he doesn't comprehend it. He pulls away, lowers his gaze to the floor. He wants pain. Needs it. But not with his – friend? Boyfriend? – standing there. He takes a breath.

"Maybe you should leave." He says it as he usually speaks. No emotion attached. He misses the hurt flash across the other man's face. His heart pounds. He needs it. He needs it now.

For once in his life, Denmark doesn't question him, just leaves. Norway isn't sure how he feels about that. Is he sad that he's alone? Happy? Is he relieved that he doesn't have to be around anyone? Disappointed that the Dane didn't argue with him?

He goes back to his room, sees the shattered mirror. He looks at it for a few minutes, sees his face from too many different angles to count. He finds a large piece, picks it up. He rolls up his sleeve. Brings the shard to his arm. Cuts into his flesh. Lightly at first, but the pain feels good, the blood looks good. He presses harder, watches more blood leave his body.

He vaguely notices that he's crying. He doesn't care. He cuts a new line, parallel to the first. He chokes back a sob. He's not dead. He's not … My fault – What's his fault? These thoughts are confusing. He can't make sense of them. Iceland – dead? – no – yes – no – his fault – all his – too late – never happened – fakefakefake.

He's made five cuts before he gets his thoughts sorted out. He's under control. He knows where he is, what's happening. He's going to take his private jet to Iceland tomorrow, surprise his brother. It'll be just like the old times. Just him and Iceland.

**/break\\\**

He wakes up to the sound of his phone ringing. He tries to ignore it. He focuses on the red on his arms. The cuts are beginning to heal – the curse of being a nation. But even though they are healing, he can still see the cuts, the red, the dried blood. His hand traces one of the cuts. It sends a shiver down his spine. It hurts to touch the cut, yet he continues doing so, even presses harder.

Whoever who is on the other end of the phone gives up, disconnects the call before they can leave a message. He's relieved. But then the phone rings again. Someone really wants to get ahold of him. Sighing, he stands up, goes to the phone, answers reluctantly. He's not surprised when the loud, obnoxious voice of his partner speaks to him.

"Hey, Norge!" the man says cheerfully. "I saw this great movie is out and thought we could –"

He doesn't listen as Denmark chatters on and on. He's pressing his fingers into the cuts. His heart races. He needs it again. It needs it. They're healing too quickly – he doesn't want them to heal. He licks his lips.

"Norge? You still there?"

"Leave me alone. I need to get ready to go see Iceland. It's been awhile since we've spent time together."

He hangs up. He takes a kitchen knife to his arm, reopens the cuts one by one. New, shiny, bright red is added to the old, dark, crusty red. He stumbles back into the wall, on a high only he understands. Yes, after this, he'll get his jet. He'll fly over to see his brother. They can talk. Or go eat somewhere. Maybe Iceland can show him around. It's been a long time since he's been to his brother's landmass.

It's too late – he's dead – no, he's not! – lies – good as gone – his fault – his fault – no – no – stop – STOP!

He's on the ground, clutching the knife in his hand as if it's his lifesaver. His thoughts are clearer – he's sure of what's right now. His brother is fine. He has to – no, he _is_. His arms are bloody. Without realizing it, he brings his wrist to his lips, licks some of the red. He feels satisfied. He's reminded of the old days – so much bloodshed – but those days are over – he misses those days – he licks more of the blood from his arm.

He closes his eyes, takes a breath. He stands up, cleans the knife, then his arms. He wraps them loosely – they'll heal faster than cuts on a human. He cleans his lips, in case blood dripped onto them. Washes out his mouth. Leans heavily on the counter as memories flood his mind.

He sees his dear, dear brother, back when he'd first discovered Iceland. He grins to himself. Where has that child gone? He's a young man now. A very independent young man who doesn't need his brother to take care of him anymore – like Iceland had ever really needed him. But he, Norway, needed his brother, for reasons unknown, even to himself.

He misses those days, when he and his brother spent time together. Sure, Iceland resented him for awhile, but they both benefited from the alliance … Right? The grin fades. He wishes he still lived with his brother, or vice versa. He misses his only family. That does it. He's going to visit Iceland. Right now.

He goes to his room. He gets a small bag, begins packing clothes. He doesn't notice when Denmark appears in the doorway, the slightest of frowns on his face.

"What'cha doing?"

He jumps slightly, shoots a glare at the taller man. "Didn't I tell you to leave me alone?" Denmark smirks, shrugs. The concern in his eyes is still apparent. Norway rolls his eyes. "I'm going to visit Iceland."

Denmark frowns. "Norge …"

He ignores the man, continues packing. He slips a piece of glass into his pocket when Denmark turns around to survey the room. He doesn't know when he'll need to cut again. And the glass was the closest sharp object.

His partner grabs his, Norway's, arm. He jolts, holds back a cry of pain. Savors in the pain, actually. Denmark drags him through his own house, ignores his protests. The Dane forces him into his car. Norway gives up, looks out the window as they drive.

"Where are we going?" he asks, annoyance lacing his tone. Denmark's grip on the steering wheel tightens.

"You'll see."

A long drive later, and they pull up to a hospital. Norway doesn't understand. He hears a faint voice in the back of his head – your fault, your fault – but pays it no mind. He follows Denmark into the building, down different hallways, until they're in front of a door. His apprehension grows with every step, but he can't comprehend why.

Denmark turns to him, a serious expression looking very out of place on his face. "Norway, you've blocked this out somehow – let me finish!" Norway shuts his mouth before he can ask what the Dane is talking about. Denmark sighs. "At this point, I think the only way to snap you out of it is by showing you …" A pause. He opens the door. "You want to see Iceland, so I brought you to him."

Norway takes a few steps into the room. He sees the familiar silver hair on the pillow on the hospital bed. He shakes his head furiously, tries backing away, only for Denmark to hold him in place, forcing him to look at the man before him.

"I-It's not him! It can't be him! He's my brother! My brother wouldn't –"

"He's GONE, Norway! He's brain dead! Just let him go! He's not going to wake up!" Denmark yells, startles him, scares him. Denmark repeats, "Just let him _go_!"

Norway escapes from his lover's grasp, runs away from the room, ignores Denmark's shouts to come back. He finds a bathroom somehow, barges in, brings out the glass shard. He tears off the bandages. With shaking hands, he brings the edge to his healing cuts. Thoughts enter his head – he doesn't know what's real – blocking things out? Snap him out of it? What?

His fault – it's all his fault – what's his fault – brain dead – NO! – alive – alive – lies –

"Han er min bror," he sobs brokenly to himself. "Han er min bror."

His thoughts are all over the place. He finishes reopening all of the cuts, washes them, washes the glass, places the glass in his pocket. He presses paper towels to his cuts, waits for them to stop bleeding – he doesn't have anything to rewrap them.

He takes a deep breath, pulls his sleeves back down, wipes his face clear of tears. He exits the bathroom, nearly bumps into Denmark. The Dane has his I'm-seriously-pissed-off-at-you-you're-lucky-I-don't-have-my-axe-with-me face on. The man glares at Norway. The shorter of the two brushes past him.

"Why can't you accept it?" Denmark yells. Norway ignores how his heart breaks. How can his lover yell at him? Why can't they go home and pretend this never happened?

Denmark doesn't take his silence well. Instead, the man stays in place, allows Norway to walk away. _Don't let me walk away._

"I'm tired of your attitude!" Denmark screams. "I'm done trying to help you. And do me a favor? Don't talk to me until you've gotten your head and priorities straightened out." _Don't leave me. Don't abandon me._

He gets a taxi back home. All the way there, he keeps his cool, calm mask on his face. The sadness transforms into anger and frustration. The minute he enters his house, he heads to the bathroom to bandage his arms. As soon as he looks in the mirror, though, his eyes harden. How dare he. How dare Denmark break up with him when he needs him the most – why does he need him? – he doesn't need anybody – they all leave him – but Iceland – Iceland's … what?

Horribly confused and angry, he smashes the mirror with his fist. _Smash_. He doesn't notice the pain or the blood. He takes the shampoo bottle, the hand soap, throws them at the bathroom window. _Crash_. He throws everything he can, hits and kicks anything he can't throw. _Crash, crash, crash_.

"Alle forlate meg! Alle forsvinne!"

Why did he yell that? Why does he care if he's alone? He's not alone – Iceland – what about Iceland? Brain dead – NO! – yes – no – doesn't know – doesn't care – feels adrenaline through his veins –

The rush … it's familiar. The more he smashes, the more he fades into his mind. The more he likes it. The more he sees himself raiding a village, the more he sees himself in a different time period altogether. It feels like the good old days.

He sinks to the ground, exhausted. He ignores the blood, the mess, the glass. He grins. Something – something he can control – something that won't leave him – that's familiar. He closes his eyes.

**/break\\\**

He wakes up to the sun shining through the shattered window. He blinks. Once. Twice. Looks around the small space, sees the mess, the glass. Grins. Unknowingly, his eyes darken the slightest bit. Just like when he had been a Viking. Back when he had power. He'd had a taste of that power again while trashing the room. He longs to feel it again.

He stands, doesn't bother to clean up the blood that's all over his arms, his clothes. He goes to the kitchen, eats quickly. Then he grabs a knife. Control. It's all about control. But why does he need control? Iceland – no – that can't be right. His thoughts clear once the blade slices his scars open. _Never let them heal. Never let them fade._ Control. It's a good thing. He reopens all of his wounds until his arms are dripping red. A color he's grown to love again – had he ever stopped loving it?

But this control – this simple clarity – it isn't enough. He still hears something in the back of his head, whispering to him lies about Iceland – what's the importance of Iceland again? No matter. There isn't a rush. Control is good, yes. But he needs the rush. The rush of a Viking tearing through a village. He takes the bloody knife, turns it in his hands thoughtfully, throws it as hard as he can into the wall. It stays, imbedded into the wood. He grins, ignores the blood that's dripping onto the floor. More. He must have more.

He yanks open the cupboard, throws glasses and plates and bowls all over the room at pretend enemies. _Crash, crash, crash_. He pulls the drawers out, dumps their contents, kicks them and the drawers wherever he sees fit. _Crash, crash, crash_. He throws the coffee maker, the radio, anything he can find. _Crash, crash, crash_. When there is no longer anything new to throw, he kicks at the objects on the floor. He smears his blood on the walls, on the countertops. He feels like he's in a different place, a different time.

And he loves it.

He grows bored with his used playthings. He takes an empty drawer, a set of matches, goes outside. He sets fire to the drawer, adds leaves and fallen branches to it. He's entranced by the smoke, by the fire. He doesn't see a drawer burning. He sees a village in Europe, sees his fellow Vikings setting fire to everything they can.

He stays until the fire burns out. The rush is dying down, leaving him weary. The blood loss isn't helping. He returns inside, heads to his bedroom. He ignores the mess, collapses on the torn bed. Those Viking days … how he wishes they still were …

**/break\\\**

_He's beside his brother when the silver-haired man awakes. He waits for the other to make a move, scared that he'll push the younger man into leaving him forever. But at the same time, if he doesn't say something, his brother will be lost forever. Instead of speaking, the man turns his head away. The blonde's jaw ticks, a nervous habit. He needs to say something. His brother is confused. He has to say something, anything, to make him realize what's real._

"_You almost died, Ísland."_

_He hopes his brother will respond to this. He hopes his brother will understand that this is real, that he almost lost his life over a dream. Instead, Iceland refuses to meet his eyes, or even look in his general direction._

"_Look at me." Maybe, if they have some sort of connection, Iceland will listen? The man doesn't listen to him. His heart pounds faster. Iceland won't listen to him. He's panicking, although his expression doesn't change. His voice hardens. He needs his brother to listen to reason. "Look. At. Me."_

_To his relief, Iceland finally turns to look at him. For once in his life, he lets go of his mask. Maybe that's what his brother needs. Maybe his brother needs him to be more open. His eyes connect with Iceland's. He wants to cry at the fear, and the heartbreak, and the pain. Fear of him, of this world. Heartbreak, probably that he's away from his dream-world family. Pain, of having woken up and returned here._

_He doesn't know what to do. He needs to make his brother understand. He needs to force the truth onto his brother. He keeps their eyes connected, grabs his brother's shoulders to prove that he's there. "You are _going_ to _die_ if you don't snap out of it."_

_His brother doesn't react. He's panicking. He can feel his heartbeat pick up. He sees how his brother looks so – so dead. So ready to let go of life. He needs to convince him to stay. He has to._

"_This is real, Ísland. Your mind is playing tricks on you, and you're falling for them!" He doesn't mean to raise his voice. But maybe that will get through to the man? His hope is slowly sinking. What can he do to convince the man to stay?_

_He chokes back a sob, hears the hysteria in his voice, "I don't want to lose you. I can't lose my brother."_

_He sees something in Iceland snap. He's happy that he's managed to get a reaction, but worried when he sees he's obviously said something wrong. His brother pushes him away. He wants to cry but refuses to do so, especially in front of Iceland. He replaces his calm mask._

"_I don't want to be your brother!" Iceland yells. The younger man's voice breaks. "I want Lukas! I just want Lukas!"_

_He has to make his brother understand. He has to. He places a hand on Iceland's forehead, trying to calm him as he used to all those years ago. "I _am_ Lukas. I'm right here." Please, Iceland, see that this is real. Return to us, to me._

_Iceland slaps his hand away. He holds back tears. "You're not him. You're not _him_. I want _my_ Lukas. I love him. I love him. I love him."_

_He winces. He loves his brother, but not in the way Iceland wants him to. He wishes he could reciprocate the feelings – even if it is incest – but he's in love with Denmark. He doesn't see Iceland like that._

"_Ísland … Erik, he's not real. I am. You need to stay here, with me and the others. We can help you." He hopes that his use of his brother's human name will get him to calm down. Unfortunately, it only makes the younger man unstable. His eyes widen as Iceland tears out all the wires connected to him. He shouts at him, tries to get him to stop – he can't lose his brother – but nothing gets through._

"_Don't call me that! You're not him! _You're not him!_ I don't want to stay here! I want to be with Lukas. I want to be with him! Let me be with him!"_

_He manages to hold down Iceland's arms. He's scared for his brother. Iceland has snapped, but he's not been lost. He hasn't been. He can still fix him. He can still snap him out of it._

_Iceland somehow is able to push him away. He trips over his feet, losing precious time when he sees what his brother is up to. He jumps at the younger man, misses. He can't let his brother die. He can't. He turns around, sees his brother about to slit his throat. He tackles Iceland to the ground, ignoring the glass shards and broken machinery. He wrestles for control, hoping, praying that he can save Iceland._

_He retrieves the glass shard, ignores Iceland's incoherent protests. Iceland is strong, though, even in his weakened state. His brother lunges for the shard. He does the first thing his instincts tell him to – he pushes Iceland away. A little too hard._

_He watches in growing horror as his brother hits his head on the floor. He sees the dazed expression on Iceland's face, then the calm and acceptance. Doctors and nurses rush into the room, but he refuses to leave his brother's side. He knows that this is it – either Iceland dies, or he recovers. It's up to Iceland to decide which path to go._

_He knows which one Iceland wants to go._

_He's desperate, as he talks to him, "Don't leave me. We need you. I need you. Stay awake, please, just stay awake …" It's his last shot, the last thing that he can possibly say to Iceland that has even the slightest chance of keeping him here. He hesitates before saying, "I love you …"_

**/break\\\**

He starts. Where is he? He glances around the trashed bedroom, sighs, places a hand over his pounding heart. What had he done to anger the Dark Elves* into giving him a nightmare? He notes the familiarity and déjà vu feeling of the dream but shrugs it off. It couldn't have possibly happened. He would still remember. Right?

But, still, the vivid images … Maybe Iceland really is – no, it's not possible – or perhaps it is? Maybe … Maybe. He grits his teeth, hates the confusion in his mind. He hates it. He doesn't know what the truth is. But he does know one thing. He likes being in control.

His heartbeat already races in anticipation. He wants to invade a country but can't wait long enough for it to happen. He'll have to settle for what he's been doing: trashing his house. So that's what he does.

For several minutes – or perhaps it is for several hours – he throws everything around. He breaks the window, the door, punches holes in his walls. _Crash, crash, crash_. He likes the rush. He loves it. He's in control. He doesn't have any confusion over Iceland. None at all.

He awakens from his rage when he stumbles across a photo. He doesn't understand why this photo in particular brought him down from his rush. He realizes it's the same picture he'd been staring at in the corner of the room for who-knows-how-long. It has blood stains on it now, but he knows the photo front and back, up and down, all directions. He gasps, drops the photo as he sees a vision.

_He'd had to leave for a couple of days. The doctors and nurses wouldn't let him in. Neither had Denmark. For those two and a half days he knew nothing on his brother's condition. He spoke the most he'd ever spoken to Denmark, Sweden, and Finland, telling him how whatever is wrong with Iceland is his fault – he'd been the one to shove the man down too hard. The others could protest and comfort him all they wanted. He knows it's his fault … whatever 'it' is._

_Finally, they are allowed back to the hospital. The doctors won't speak to them for what seems like an eternity. The entire time, he's murmuring to himself, trying to convince himself that Iceland is okay._

_His prayers are in vain._

_One doctor pulls him aside and tells him the bad news: that Iceland is brain dead. The possibility of him every waking up was none. He's as good as dead. There's no way he'll get up, speak, move … His brain function is zip, zero, zilch, even as his heart and lungs continue to work._

_For the next couple of weeks, the doctors and nurses, even his fellow Nordics, try to convince him to pull the plug on Iceland. 'There's no hope,' they tell him. 'Let him go.' He refuses to listen._

_Eventually, he stops all communication with everyone. He stays in his house at all times, telling himself that none of it is true, that Iceland is back home, safe, alone – until he believes it._

He snaps out of the flashback. His memories return to him. Tears fall sluggishly down his cheeks, onto the photo that has fallen to the floor. Everything he's fought against – it's true. His brother is brain dead.

His brother.

Is brain dead.

His eyes darken. He wipes away the tears roughly. He changes clothes and starts for the door, knocking over a lamp harshly. _Crash_. He wants control? Now he can finally have it back. He'll be one of the most feared nations in the world once again.

All he has to do is convince his boss to invade Iceland.

**/break\\\**

It's only a few weeks later, and progress is going well. Luckily for him, his boss had agreed immediately on invading Iceland. His people are attacking the landmass at this very moment. He grins sadistically, licks away the blood leaking from his wrist. He likes control. He likes it very much.

The doorbell rings. Quickly, he rinses and bandages his arms, hides the bloody knife, cleans his mouth. He looks through the peep-hole. It's the other Nordics. His eyes flash. Perhaps he can convince them to help him. Denmark would certainly enjoy it; he'd been quite the violent man even only a few centuries ago. He can always threaten to attack their lands if they refused. But they're not going to refuse. They want their glory days back, too. They want to be part of it.

He opens the door and steps aside to let them in. One by one, they pass him: Denmark's grin a little off, Finland refusing to meet his eyes, Sweden staring him down. He doesn't react. He closes the door and then stands before them, for none of them have sat down. Finland twitches, shrinks close to Sweden, the latter of whom stands tall and proud. Denmark runs a hand through his hair, tries to keep a smile on his face, yet his eyes show concern.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" he, Norway, mocks. He has his mask firmly in place, but his voice is all about Control.

"Y'u 're 'ttacking 'cel'nd," Sweden states, cold and harsh. There is no noise in the room for a few minutes. He, Norway, looks over the faces of each of the men in front of him. They doubt him now, but they want Control just as much as he does.

"He is weak," he says coolly. "It is a good time to invade. To take back what is mine."

Denmark narrows his eyes. "It's not right."

Norway barks out a sharp, hoarse laugh. "You think I care? You think that _anyone_ cares?" He sees they're not convinced. How hypocritical of them. "What – what about when Denmark had us all under his control, huh?" He's quickly becoming angrier. He relishes in its grasp, allows it to foster and control his every move.

"Or when Sweden tried to take over all of Europe?" He licks his lips. "We nearly succeeded, a thousand years ago. We can do it again. It starts with one nation and then spirals into two, three, until we're in control of everything. This time – this time it starts with Ísland. We'll be feared once again!"

"He's your brother, Norway," Finland tries to calm him. But it won't work, oh, how it won't work. He enjoys the rush he's feeling. "You love him. You don't want this."

His lip curls up in a half-snarl, the corners of his mouth twitch as if he's debating whether or not to smirk – an expression that causes Denmark's eyes to widen and Sweden to stand protectively in front of Finland.** "Oh, but I do. I want control. There's a whole world out there for the taking, and I. Want. It."

"Y'u've r'vert'd t' y'ur V'king s'lf. R'm'mber th' y'ar, N'r'y. R'm'mber who y'u 're n'w."

His smirk fades. His eyes narrow. How dare they. They will regret this. He can see there is no point to trying to persuade them to help. They've grown weak. And the weak will be taken over. Their loss. Not his.

"Leave my house," he growls. Denmark steps forward. Norway tenses, ready for a fight.

"What about Iceland? Norge, this will _kill_ him."

Norway chuckles lowly. "My brother is already as good as dead," he snarls. "I might as well get something out of it."

Finland, Sweden, and Denmark pass him once more, this time to leave his house. Sweden and Finland refuse to look at him. Denmark sends him a desperate look. He glares in response. A pair of puppy-eyes won't get him to change his mind. He wants Control. He's going to get it. He returns to his kitchen and his blade. Control, indeed.

**/break\\\**

The World Conference is chaos when he walks in. Nothing unusual. That is, until they turn their anger onto him. They all shout things at once so nothing can be heard except a loud roar. He cares not what they think. He wants to be Feared, so he'll be Feared.

Germany begins to call the meeting to order as he so often does. The shouts die down, except for a few. Those yells, he can hear clearly. He ignores them. If they're so naïve to think he'll give in because of peer pressure, they will simply be even more easily invaded and conquered.

The few shouts that continued yelling spurred the rest of the countries to start up again, much to Germany's chagrin. He, Norway, coolly walks towards his seat.

"It figures you'll go after Iceland when he can't do shit about it! He's brain dead, but that's not good enough for you, is it? You need him to die, but for what purpose? Nothing but selfishness, that's what!"

He doesn't hear who yelled it. He doesn't care. All his hears is: brain dead.

Brain dead.

Brain.

Dead.

The thick fog of rage in his mind clears suddenly, only to be replaced by grief and hysteria. "He's my brother!" He's crying – why is he crying? And in front of all these countries! "He's my brother! I can't lose him. I can't … Jeg kan ikke jeg kan ikke jeg kan ikke…"

"You're going to lose him if you keep this up!"

As Germany calls for order, Norway runs out of the room. He needs Control. He needs it he needs it he needs it. He finds the bathroom, pulls out a knife from his boot, reopens the wounds on his arms. Tears and blood mix in the sink.

He jumps when the door opens. He forgot to lock it. He forgot. To lock. The damn door. As a person enters the room, he drops the blade into the sink, but it's all too obvious what he's done. The other person – Canada, he notes – gently takes his arms and washes them. Norway hands him the bandages. Canada wraps them, not saying a word.

When he's about to leave, Canada whispers, "He's not your only brother, you know …"

Norway's mask is in place, but his thoughts are all over the place. "I don't consider the other Nordics to be my brothers," he corrects, but Canada shakes his head, the faintest smile on his lips.

"Do you remember, a long time ago, when you settled colonies?" Canada murmurs. "There was one in North America. You named it –"

"Vinland," Norway finishes. He looks at Canada, really looks. He had forgotten all about Vinland. He had never known there'd been someone like him – a personification. He would've done something – anything – different.

"It's okay that you forgot," Canada shrugs. Norway looks away. "No one remembers anymore. Except me."

Norway imagines how Vinland – Canada – must have felt, left alone. He clenches his hands into fists. No one rediscovered the Americas until four hundred years later. Vinland … how had he done it?

"No one remembers I'm called Canada right now, much less Vinland or Acadia in the past," Canada continues. Norway doesn't speak, feels guilt overwhelm him. "Why … why do you cut?"

And now … now that it's been said out loud, now that someone else was actually _asking_ him … he doesn't know. Why _does_ he cut? His excuse is control, that wonderful Control … but is it really? What is he controlling when he cuts? Why does it help to feel pain, to see blood pour out of his self-inflicted wounds? He wants to say it helps him be in control, yet he always finds himself _losing_ control when he does it.

Not that he'll stop. No, no, it's much better to have the illusion of control than to face the world head-on. His life is a mess. He doesn't care about anything or anyone. He needs something to hold on to – and that something is any sharp object within his reach.

He realizes he's been silent for awhile. Canada doesn't seem to care. "You know I'm going to have to tell someone, right? Denmark –"

"Do not tell anyone! _Especially_ _not Denmark_!" he screams. Canada looks shaken, although he covers it with ease.

Norway brushes past the other man, ready to leave. He hears one last thing from Canada, "People still care about you. You're not alone."

How wrong he is, Norway thinks.

He skips the meeting – nothing ever gets done, anyway. He goes home – it's a good thing the Conference is held in his country this time … although Germany and America are always the ones who take over, so where it's held really doesn't matter.

He enters his house, closes the door, knocks over books, the lamp, smashes the window. _Crash, crash, crash._ He takes the cushions on the couch and tears them up. He knocks over the bookshelf, throws his knife at the television. _Crash, crash_. The rage, the control … It's not enough.

He half-stumbles to the kitchen to get a sharp, sharp knife. He ignores the phone ringing, cuts into his arm. The control isn't there. It's not enough. Why isn't it enough? Whoever is on the other end of the phone leaves a message – a message on how there are several cuts on Iceland's chest that seem to come out of nowhere – and he's angry at himself, for he knows what the cuts are from, but the fucking doctors and nurses don't know shit about who their patient is – what their patient is –

He suddenly finds himself slumped on the floor, knife in hand, blood – a lot of blood – flowing from his wrist. It's deep, too deep, but he feels the control, he needs the control. Tears fall down his face. The deeper the cut, the more control he has. He brings a shaky hand over his arm. Again. Again.

Then there's Denmark, kneeling beside him, speaking to him, but he can't think right now. The knife is wrenched from his grasp, a towel pressed to his arms, to his wrists. How pretty the red looks. He giggles. Smiles. His ears unclog themselves enough so he hears himself say, "Look – look at the pretty! It – It's control. I got control back. It's such a pretty control…"

Denmark keeps the towels pressed to his arms. The blood isn't pouring out so fast now. It must be because he's a nation. Damn this fucking curse. Denmark has a scared expression on his face. Norway doesn't like it.

"Wh-where's that smile o' yours?" he slurs, getting faint. "'s always so pretty." He closes his eyes. He's so tired.

Denmark shakes him awake. Norway doesn't have the energy to glare at him. "D-don't fall asleep, okay? You've lost a lot of blood … Maybe I should take you to the hospital …"

Norway struggles to sit up, failing miserably. "N-no hospitals. I'm fine. I'm fine. See? Bleeding's stopped."

And, indeed, it had. Denmark bandages the cuts carefully. It is silent for a few minutes before Denmark speaks up.

"I'm sorry. For everything, Norge. I still love you. So, so much." Denmark leans in and gives him a kiss. It's gentle, slow, not the usual hasty and impatient kiss that Denmark always has. He lets the Dane kiss him. He loves him. He just has so much doing on … He doesn't know what to think, or how to act.

He kisses back.

**/break\\\**

It's been a month. A long, tiring month. The attacks on Iceland had ceased. Norway is in a pit of despair. He's thought about what he's done. And he's ashamed. He's ashamed that he ever blocked out the truth. Ashamed that he cuts himself. Ashamed that he forgot about Vinland. Ashamed that he attacked Iceland and very nearly attacked the other Nordics.

He's ashamed of himself.

He wishes he'd been a better brother to both Vinland and Iceland. Maybe things would have ended differently. It's far too late for him to be a better brother for Iceland. But it's not for Vinland … Canada.

He reaches over for his phone and dials the Canadian's number.

**/break\\\**

In a solitary hospital bed lies a silver-haired man, declared brain dead. However, for just an instant, there is a flash of brain activity. The nurse on duty widens her eyes. She runs out of the room – "Doctor!"

OoOoOo

**A/N: Sorry for incorrect translations. Please, please correct me! Also, sorry about Norwegian mythology stuff (in this chapter, the Dark Elves). I can't find good information on it anywhere. I have a feeling the best sites are in Norwegian … which I can't read … *sigh***

**Before you say something like 'you can't come back from being brain dead!' … wait until next chapter. It'll be (somewhat) explained.**

**Sorry there's not much Iceland. Stay tuned for next chapter!**

**Translations:**

**Norge = Norway**

**Nei! Han er ikke død! Han er **_**ikke død**_**! Han er ikke! Han er ikke! Han er ikke! = No! He's not dead! He's **_**not dead**_**! He's not! He's not! He's not!**

**Han er min bror. = He's my brother.**

**Alle forlate meg! Alle forsvinne!** **= Everyone is abandoning me! Everyone disappears! (the closest thing to 'everyone is leaving!')**

**Ísland = Iceland**

**Jeg kan ikke jeg kan ikke jeg kan ikke = I can't I can't I can't**

*** = In Norwegian mythology/fairytales/whatever they are, there are things called Dark Elves. From what I remember (I can't find the website I found the info), they killed people but also gave them nightmares. In this case, nightmares (obviously).**

**** = I picture that the expression Norway had on was one he used a lot in his Viking times. Sweden and Denmark recognized it because they, too, had/were Vikings. Finland, on the other hand, did not/was not.**

**I'm bad at Sweden-speech. If you can't understand something, let me know and I'll tell you what he said.**


	2. Chapter 2

EDIT 7/27/12 – Fixed some Norwegian thanks to Guest.

_**This is not medically possible (I think). This is where things stop making sense…Then again, when did they ever make sense? *glares at the OOC-ness***_

_**There are POV changes in this chapter, just fyi. Also:**_

_**Erik = Iceland**_

_**Lukas = Norway**_

_**Matthias = Denmark**_

OoOoOo

He sets down the phone, hands trembling. He licks his lips. He feels his hopes rising. He forces them back down. It would do him no good if his spirits rose, only for it to be a fluke. A mistake. But even the possibility – no, it's impossible. No way. No. Every day, someone tries to convince him to let the doctors pull the plug because there's no chance. But now … Perhaps there is a chance?

He leans heavily against the cracked wall, feeling slightly lightheaded. It can't be true. It can't. It's not possible. Then again, they _are_ nations. Perhaps the call of his people and his land calls him back? No one knows what happens to a country whose nation is in a … non-responsive … state. Maybe there is still a chance.

He slides to the dirty, messy floor, ignores the broken objects surrounding him. He snatches fistfuls of hair in his hands, pulls his knees up to his chest. There's still a chance. He can still make things right with Iceland. It had only been a blip on a monitor, but it's still a chance. Iceland might wake up. Somehow.

He feels his emotions begin to get the better of him. He attempts to calm himself, fails miserably. He closes his eyes, breathes deeply. Calm down. Don't get ahead of yourself. It could be a fluke. It could be a mistake. With a start, he realizes he's crying. Stop, stop, don't let this ruin you! Control, where is his control?

He grabs his knife – now a permanent accessory to his person – and pulls back his sleeves. He reopens the wounds, one at a time. He vaguely realizes that Denmark will see – the other man has taken to 'fixing' him, although he doesn't see what the problem is – but he doesn't care. He needs control. He needs it.

It isn't until the next day that he finally gains the courage to visit his brother. When he gets to the hospital parking lot, he has to sit in his car for a good fifteen minutes, trying to calm himself, before making his way into the building. He goes to Iceland's room, hesitates in the doorway, before he finally stands beside his brother.

He stares at the monitor that detects brain activity. None. He feels his hopes fall. But maybe if he talks to Iceland, something in the man will respond? He pulls a chair to the bedside, careful of the monitors and wires. He holds his brother's hand. What is it he's supposed to say? He decides that anything is better than nothing and speaks of the other countries, of the weather, of the economy.

Nothing.

He continues to talk, hoping something will respond. He speaks of the trolls, the landscape in his home, the sky at night. And then he sees it.

Brain activity.

He straightens up. Tears cloud his vision. It's working. Something he's doing is working. So he continues speaking about his people, about his boss, he even tells an old story to him.

The brain activity continues.

He presses the button for the nurse. They have to see this. They have to know that his brother is going to be okay. His grip on Iceland's hand tightens. He won't let his brother go this time. He knows that his brother is going to wake up. It will happen. It will.

And suddenly, he's sobbing: "Jeg er lei meg, Island! Jeg er lei meg! Kom tilbake! Du kan gjør det. Du allerede gjør det. Jeg elsker deg. Jeg elsker deg."

The nurses and doctors enter the room. They check the machines for malfunctions, but nothing is found. Iceland's brain is active. This baffled the doctors and nurses, for nothing has ever happened like this before. They call it a miracle.

The doctors speak to him, telling him what they know, what they don't know. He asks about the cuts – he doesn't know if they're still there or if they'd faded. He's told they'd healed quickly a few days previous. So fast that it is inhuman. He doesn't say anything. Nods. Leaves to the bathroom.

His brother's cuts are healed. He can't let that happen to his. His are his reminder of his stupidity. They are his control. His lovely, lovely control. He brings the knife out and cuts his wounds open, wishes they would become permanent, but knowing his wishing is in vain.

**/break\\\**

A few weeks later, he is once again sitting in a chair beside his brother. The brain activity has continued. He'd noticed that Iceland responds more when he speaks in Norwegian. He's gotten into the habit of only speaking in his native tongue when with his brother. He's hoped that Iceland would wake up. The doctors had announced that the silver-haired man is in a deep coma. However, the fact that he has brain activity at all has convinced him, Norway, that his brother will wake up.

His prediction proves to be true when he sees Iceland's eyes open slowly. He stiffens in surprise. His brother is awake. His brother. Is awake. At long last. He takes a moment to study his brother's eyes – eyes that he'd thought he'd never see again. He tries his best to keep his composure, but when Iceland moves his head to look at him, Norway breaks down. He's suddenly crying and speaking gibberish in Norwegian. He can't hold himself back any longer and he latches himself onto Iceland, for fear the younger man will leave him again.

**/Iceland POV\\\**

He opens his eyes. The first thing he notices is white. White. White. Forbidden, evil white. He's nervous, scared. Has he finally been torn away from his lover? Has the universe ripped them apart, forcing him to live a life he doesn't want? He tries to calm himself. It's only a hospital, he has to remind himself. That doesn't necessarily mean he's been brought to the other world.

He tries to remember what happened. He and Lukas had been making dinner. It had been a lot more than usual because the other Nordics had been visiting. Lukas had said something to him – he couldn't quite recall – and then … black …

There is a black spot in his memory. He doesn't know if it's because Matthias had managed to get him drunk, or if he'd passed out for whatever reason. He prays it was the former, for the latter would imply that he's in the fake world. The world where he just doesn't belong, doesn't want to belong.

Taking a chance, he turns his head to the man beside him, who, before then, he had ignored. His heart seems to skip a beat – although the monitor doesn't pick up on it, so it is just his imagination – when he sees it's Lukas. But is it _his_ Lukas?

The man before him has the mask on – the mask that Lukas never wears. He's about to yell and scream and do God-knows-what when the other man practically leaps onto the bed, grasping onto him. He's surprised – maybe he's wrong. Maybe this _is_ his Lukas. And then … he feels tears on his neck, where the other man has buried his face. Releasing a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, Iceland grinned slightly. This is his Lukas. No way would the imposter be this emotional.

"Did Matthias get me drunk again?" he asks, for he doesn't know what's happened. "I don't remember anything past making dinner with you … How long has it been?"

Lukas stiffens, although Iceland doesn't understand why. Lukas lifts his head from his shoulder. Iceland, seeing the tear tracks down his lover's face, lifts a hand shakily and wipes them away. "Ekki gráta, ástin mín. Það er allt í lagi með mig. Sérðu? Ég er hérna."

**/Norway POV\\\**

He hears his brother asking about Denmark, saying things that he knows didn't happen. His heart breaks for his brother – and for himself. Why? What did he do so that his brother created another world … another world where he is happy. He does his best to hide his sudden anger. A world that fucking took his brother away. Never again. Never again. He's going to keep his brother here, with him. Even if he has to pretend to be someone else.

He holds his brother's hand lightly, presses it lightly against his cheek. What should he say? He doesn't know how they act in his brother's dream. So he guesses. "Yes. De-_Matthias_ gave you a bit too much for you to handle." But how can that be connected to being in the hospital? "You … uh … fell down the stairs and hit your head pretty hard." Please, please let there be stairs in whatever building they'd been in …

Iceland seems to buy it. He sighs in relief. "Well, at least I woke up with you by my side." Wait, was Iceland _flirting_? Oh, my God … What to do? What to do? He struggles to keep the panic hidden. "Although I feel bad that I landed myself in the hospital after only a few months into our married life …" Wait … Pause right there …

They're _married_?

He does his best to calm his racing heart – this time, the racing is a bad thing. What is he going to do? What if Iceland tries to – he shakes those thoughts from his mind. He'll just make excuses. Yes, that's what he'll do. But how long will excuses last? Iceland will get suspicious – but there is no way in _hell_ he's doing … _that_ … with his brother. No fucking way.

He's pulled from his thoughts when Iceland pushes their lips together. He freezes. He can't think. He can't breathe. He can't react. His brother is … shit … But Iceland will notice if he doesn't do something. So, reluctantly, awkwardly, he kisses back. What is he doing? _What the fuck is he doing?_ It feels wrong, so very, very wrong. Iceland obviously doesn't feel the same way.

He gets an excuse to pull away when a doctor enters the room. Iceland grins slightly – _why did he never do that before?_ – before motioning to him to talk with the doctor. Said doctor pulls him outside the doorway.

"It's a miracle he's awake," the doctor shakes his head. Norway nods in agreement, mask firmly in place. "But there's a chance he'll still get those dreams."

Oh, no. Oh, God, no. If … If Iceland gets those dreams still, he'll know that he's been tricked. He'll know and he'll leave again and – No! He won't let his brother leave him again. Never again.

The doctor hands him a bottle of liquid of some sort. "These should get rid of the dreams," he says. "However, the patient has to consent –"

"I'll talk to him for you," he interrupts, for he knows where this is going, and he knows that Iceland won't willingly take the liquid. "I promise to only give it to him if he consents." He knows that doctors shouldn't allow him to do this, but he's praying that he gets off lucky with a doctor who doesn't follow the rules. He does.

He tries to persuade the doctors to let his brother be released from the hospital. They refuse – however, he points out that his brother is 18 and can make the decision himself. In less than an hour, the two were headed back to his house. And that's when he realizes – what if it's not the right house? What if they're not in the right place? The right country? What if – oh, no, everything in his house is a mess. Broken. What is he going to say? This is going to be harder than he thought.

Iceland doesn't comment when they pull up to his house. Norway sighs. But there's still the inside of the house to worry about. And that's when it clicks – Iceland had dreamt about living in his, Norway's, house. _His house_. His grip on the steering wheel tightens, even though they are parked in his driveway. It sounds in his head, nearly making him vomit all over his car: Iceland. Him. His house. Together. Married.

What is he doing?

It's too late for that – far, far too late. And besides, he isn't about to let his brother go. Never again. Never. He notices that Iceland is staring at him, head tilted in question. With a start, he remembers that they're still in the car. He shrugs – trying to be nonchalant about everything – and exits the vehicle. He hears Iceland do the same. He has to keep himself from pulling away when Iceland grabs his hand.

They enter the house. He doesn't know what to say. He's scared that it's over, that Iceland knows that this isn't his dream, that he's going to lose him – he can't lose him! However, Iceland simply shakes his head, a ghost of a smile on his face. _Why has he never done that before? Was he really … unhappy … here?_

"Did Matthias start something again?" his brother chuckles – _chuckles_ – and takes a few steps forward. Their hands together, Norway is forced to follow. "Just how drunk did he get?"

What's he supposed to say – he doesn't know what to say. Luckily, Iceland isn't looking for answers. He puts the cushions back on the couch and drags Norway onto them. Norway's heart is pounding. What is he – no, this isn't … shit …

He stiffens when Iceland places a hand on his thigh, tracing circles. What does he do? What does he do? He has to stop this – but Iceland will know the truth then – he's not about to let his brother leave. Iceland pushes him onto his back on the couch. Norway's pleading in his head for him to stop – he doesn't like this, it's wrong, so very wrong. Iceland's hands slip under his shirt, massage his chest and stomach – _What is he supposed to do?_

"Mmm … quiet today, Lukas?" Iceland teases. Norway tenses. He's going to find out if he doesn't do something. He needs to do something. But he's not comfortable with this. At all.

Iceland kisses him, this one much deeper than the one earlier. He can't do this. He can't do this. It's his brother. No, no! He will not give in. He needs to respond, react, something. Pretend it's Denmark – yes, that's it! Pretend it's Denmark!

His eyes close. He pictures that the lips are Denmark's, that he hands are Denmark's, that the weight on top of him is Denmark. He finds himself moaning into the kiss. He brings his hands up, runs them through the other man's hair. It's Denmark, it's Denmark, it's Denmark –

"Not tonight," Iceland whispers, pulling away. Norway opens his eyes, resists gagging and showering until he can't feel his brother on him anymore – even though, really, they didn't do much. "I'm tired." As if proving his point, Iceland yawns. He stands, makes his way to Norway's – _their?_ – room. He doesn't comment on the mess. On the ripped … everything. _Has this happened in his dreams?_

"Komdu og sofðu við hliðina á mér," Iceland murmurs, lying down on the bed. Norway doesn't understand what his brother said until the other man pats the spot beside him. He licks his lips. He notices how Iceland sees, how the younger man's eyes darken the slightest bit with lust. He makes a note to be careful with that nervous tick of his.

"I have to clean up the house," he says, because he does, and also he doesn't want to be so close to his brother. Iceland pouts but doesn't argue. He falls asleep, much to Norway's relief.

He spends the next few hours cleaning the house – a very tedious task, as he'd smashed and broken so many things. When he is done, he heads to the phone, knowing that he needs to keep Denmark away – who knows if the dumb, oblivious man will rat him out? But he doesn't need to know in the first place, does he?

So he tells Denmark that Iceland needs some time to himself, and that he, Norway, wants some quality time with his brother. Denmark agrees without (too much) complaint. He sighs after hanging up. One less problem to worry about.

But the entire situation is a problem. He runs a hand angrily through his hair. It's not fair. Why does Iceland have to be in love with him? It's sick. It's disgusting. How long is he going to have to keep this up? He doesn't like how his lips feel against his brother's. He doesn't like the feel of his brother's hands on his chest. It feels so wrong. So very, very wrong. He wants to give up – No! He will not give up! He lost his brother once, he will not let it happen again.

He'll do everything he can to make his brother believe he's still in the dream. It's the only way. His gut clenches with guilt – but he can't worry about that now. Iceland, if he ever 'woke up' from this 'dream' he believes he's in, will understand. He will. It's for the best. He's sure of it.

His arms itch, and suddenly he needs control – this time, control over himself. He has Control over Iceland … he needs it over himself, too. He needs to keep his head. He needs it. So he takes the knife from his person and brings it to his arms. He gasps at the pain, doesn't register anything but the pain. Control. Sweet, sweet control.

He bleeds over the kitchen sink to make sure it can easily be washed away. He drops the knife into the sink – is he crying? – and runs water over his wounds, over the knife. He doesn't bother to bandage his arms; he'll make sure Iceland doesn't see them. He returns the knife to its hiding spot, heads to his room.

His hand twitches when he sees his brother. He wouldn't mind sleeping beside the younger man, save the fact that Iceland thinks they are married. What if Iceland tries something? What will he do? Will he go with it? Will he push his brother away, reveal the truth? His heart pounds as he lies beside his brother. He doesn't have a clue what he's doing. But if it'll keep Iceland with him …

**/break\\\**

He wakes up to his hair being brushed out of his face. His pulse immediately picks up as he remembers the situation. He does his best to calm himself before opening his eyes. Iceland's violet orbs stare back at him. The tiniest of grins is on the silver-haired man's lips. _Was I not good enough for you, as just a brother? You never showed emotions before …_

"Góðann daginn," Iceland murmurs. Norway hesitates before saying, "God morgen."

For a few minutes they lie there. Norway sees how relaxed and calm his brother is. He pushes down the tears and the rage. Why isn't he good enough? He may not be in love with Iceland, but still! Why isn't he good enough? Why?

He's pulled from those thoughts – and spiraled into new ones – when he feels a hand on his waist. Under his clothes. Why did he sleep on his side last night? He forces himself not to react when the hand massages his skin, moving up, down, and just when Norway is worried this is going to get out of hand very soon, Iceland pulls away. There's some emotion in his eyes, but Norway can't distinguish what it is. He doesn't have a chance to investigate further as Iceland kisses him. Once more, he awkwardly kisses back.

Iceland goes to the shower; Norway takes this opportunity to put the medicine the doctor gave him into a cup of coffee – he hopes Iceland drinks coffee. With a start, he realizes he really doesn't know anything about his brother. _Does_ he drink coffee? Or does he prefer tea? Does he like sugar or salt more? Red or blue? Cold versus hot? Why has he never bothered to get to know his brother?

He jumps when Iceland comes up behind him, circling pale arms around his waist. It takes all his willpower not to pull away. With slight horror and a lot of embarrassment, he realizes that Iceland – his _brother_ – is smelling his shoulder. What. The. Fuck. He doesn't know how he's supposed to react – what does the other him do? Or rather, the better question is, what does Iceland _want_ him to do?

"Þú ert svo fallegur," Iceland murmurs. Norway has no idea what was said, and hopes that Iceland won't translate. He doesn't need to know, nor does he _want_ to know. "Á fleiri en einn hátt**.**"

He doesn't like the tone of his brother's voice. It's husky, it's lustful … shit. He's in trouble, unless he does something. But what does he do? He doesn't know what his brother said, so how does he properly respond? And then he remembers – Iceland had responded more in the hospital when he'd spoken in his native tongue.

Afraid Iceland had picked up Norwegian at some point in his life (he hates not knowing anything about his brother), he carefully says, "Du virker trøt …_elskling___…" He hands over the coffee. Iceland – finally, finally – lets go of his waist to take the drink. "Have some coffee. It will wake you up." He felt dumb after that last sentence. Well, no _shit_. Coffee is _supposed_ to wake you up!

To make matters worse, Iceland is more observant than Norway thought, as he says, "Hey, where are our wedding bands?"

He freezes. Shit. What does he do? What can he say? Quick, Norge, think of something! He blurts the first thing that comes to mind, "I put them away for … safe keeping." Iceland looks dubious. "I-I …" What can he say? What does he say?

"Well, I want to wear them."

Who knew his brother could be so demanding? But that poses a giant, huge, troll-sized problem: they don't have wedding bands. He obviously can't tell that to his brother, so he ignores the statement and tries to change the subject.

"Are you going to drink that?" he motions towards the coffee. Iceland takes a few sips. Norway believes he is off the hook.

He isn't. "We're married, Lukas. We wear the wedding bands." Why, why, why? He wants to yell. He wants to cry. He doesn't know what to do. He opens his mouth to respond when the phone rings. He practically runs over to answer it, leaving Iceland alone with the coffee.

Unfortunately, the phone call only causes another problem. "Hey, Norge! How's little Ísland? Are you guys getting along? I hope he's okay. Can I come over? Please? Please? Please? I promise I'll stay out of your way."

He wishes he could reach through the phone and strangle the Dane. He really does. He wants to snap at the man, but Iceland is within hearing distance. He has to watch his wording. "No … It's really not a good time …"

"Aww, I can just see your face right now, do you know that? Do you know how much I want to –"

"Not now," he snaps. This isn't good. Denmark is trying to flirt with him. Iceland is listening to his every word. What can he say that will get Denmark to leave him alone and not rouse any suspicion in Iceland?

"I just want some time with my br-Iceland."

Denmark is persistent, and it's another five minutes before Norway is beyond annoyed and simply hangs up on the Dane. He turns to Iceland, who has an expression on his face that Norway can't decipher – then again, he doesn't know _any_ of Iceland's faces besides his blank one.

Iceland sets the empty mug down. "'Iceland'?" his voice shakes. Oh no, oh no, he's done something wrong – this isn't good. "Since when do you call me 'Iceland'?"

He hesitates. What does he say? What does he say? He realizes he's been thinking that a lot that past couple of days – and it's not even noon. Is this what the rest of his immortal life is going to be like? Him scrambling for words that will fool Iceland?

He opts for the safest option: "I can make lunch for us…?"

Iceland looks ready to argue, but drops it, offers to help cook. Norway asks his brother what he wants. When they begin the actual cooking, he bumps into Iceland a few times. He notices how Iceland's brow is furrowed. He's doing something wrong, but he doesn't know what.

Eventually, the food is ready. When Iceland isn't looking, Norway puts more of the liquid in the man's drink. He doesn't know how much to give Iceland, how many times a day. But it'll make the man's dreams disappear. It'll chain him to this world. He won't leave. Norway won't let him.

Eating is silent. He doesn't know if he's supposed to say anything, so he stays silent. When in doubt, don't say anything. When they're finished, they do the dishes. He heads towards the bathroom – he still hasn't showered.

He's pushed roughly into the nearest wall, and with a jolt, realizes he's trapped. His brother leans into him, kisses him, licks his lips for entrance – He can't do this. He can't – but Iceland will leave him again if he doesn't.

Near tears, he opens his mouth, gives his brother entrance. He tries not to gag. This is his brother. It doesn't feel right. And now Iceland's body is pressing uncomfortably against his and – fuck. Iceland rubs up against him, holds his arms against the wall, takes control of his mouth – No, he's the one who has to be in control! – but what if this is how it is in the dream? – he can't lose him.

And then it gets worse.

Not _that_ kind of worse.

Denmark shows up. And he's angry. He shouts incoherently in Danish at both Norway and Iceland, who pull apart. Norway resists the urge to strangle him. Iceland just looks at him in confusion.

"You never really loved me, did you?" Denmark shouted. Norway stiffens. Iceland frowns slightly. Denmark stomps out of the house. Norway follows.

"Danmark!" he calls. Said Dane doesn't stop. He forcibly grabs the man's arm. "Danmark!"

"In case you're somehow dumber than me, let me state this clearly: We're over," Denmark snaps, glaring at him. He forces back tears, keeps his mask in place.

"Iceland and I aren't together, idiot," he says.

"I walked in on Iceland about to fuck you, and you weren't exactly complaining!"

He takes a breath, although to calm himself from rage or fear he doesn't know – wait, fear? Never mind that. "Iceland thinks this is the dream. I'm pretending I'm … well … you know …"

Denmark looks far from happy. In fact, he looks angrier, if that's somehow possible. "Why do you want to fuck with his mind like that?"

Norway struggles to understand what the problem is. He's not doing anything bad – except the whole incest thing, but it's not real, so it doesn't count. He's protecting his brother, so Iceland doesn't die, that's all. He'd been a bad brother in the past, but he's going to change that. He's already changing that. And if he has to pretend to be Iceland's lover to be a better brother, then so be it. Why doesn't Denmark see that?

Denmark shakes his head, pulls away from Norway. "Do whatever the fuck you want. Just leave me out of it." Without another word, the Dane enters his car and speeds away.

There isn't anything wrong with this, Norway thinks. He just doesn't want his brother to leave him again. And Iceland – Iceland doesn't know what he wants – he's not stable. This is for the best.

**/Iceland POV\\\**

There's something wrong with Lukas, is all he thinks. There's something wrong with Lukas.

The blonde had been off the past couple of days. Yesterday, he'd shaken it off as Lukas being worried about him. Today, though, everything had been off, from the kisses – they felt cold and unfeeling – to the wedding bands – why would Lukas do that? – to lunch – they never needed to ask what the other wanted, never bumped into each other, never ate so awkwardly – to how submissive and cold Lukas has been. Has he done something wrong?

Maybe Lukas is more scared than he lets on? He needs to show the older man that he's fine … So when Lukas returns indoors, mask in place – he hasn't worn that around me in a long time – he practically pounces on him, pushes him onto the coffee table. Lukas – why isn't he responding? He isn't turned on in the slightest! He's almost … uncomfortable? But why?

Desperate to get his old lover back, he starts to remove Lukas' shirt. Lukas tries to stop him – you've never done that before … - but he manages to get the article of clothing off … Only to back away in horror. Lukas' arms … No. Not possible. Not possible.

"Y-you're not Lukas."

The imposter scrambles to put his shirt back on. "Iceland, it's not what you think –!"

"Ekki það sem mér finnst? Ekki það sem mér finnst? Það er nú frekar ljóst fyrir mér að þú ert lygari - það... þá... nei... ég get ekki verið kominn til baka, ég get ekki verið kominn til baka!" He's crying freely now. The pieces all fit together. It's too much for him to comprehend. "Hvað hef ég gert? Hvað hefur þú gert?"

The Lukas look-alike steps forward. He takes three frantic steps backwards. "Iceland, I did this for your own good. I'm still Lukas … just not _your_ Lukas."

"Am I just a landmass to you? Something to be invaded and conquered?" He's throwing everything he can reach, hoping something will hit the other man in the head. He feels used, betrayed. He's obviously of some importance here – the only reason anyone here would want him is for his island. "Þú ert ekkert eins og Lúkas!"

"It's okay, Iceland, it's okay to be scared right now." The other man's voice is too calm, his face too empty. It's not like Lukas at all. "But the medicine I gave you will keep away the dreams –"

"You _drugged_ me?" His voice is shrill and he hates how hysterical he sounds. He sounds so lost, so out of control. He doesn't know what to do. And what this other man says is true, then he'll never see his Lukas again. He already hasn't seen the other world. It's not fair. It's not fair. He just wants Lukas.

The blonde is coming closer, so he does the only thing he can do – he runs.

He makes it to some river before collapsing. He doesn't know where he is, doesn't care. He's been betrayed. And in a way, he betrayed Lukas. He almost had sex with another man. He sobs. If he ever gets back to Lukas … What? What will he do?

But he probably won't see Lukas again. He hasn't dreamt of him yet. He hasn't even fainted or anything. He has to face the facts. Lukas and the other world are probably gone for good. He cries harder.

From seemingly nowhere, he spots a man near the river. He's playing a fiddle. It's a beautiful instrument, and a beautiful melody. He wants to hear more. He steps closer. The song is getting louder and even more beautiful – is that even possible? Step, step, step. All of his worries have left him. He feels at peace. He likes it. All he hears is the beautiful song. Faintly, he hears his name being called. It doesn't matter; he wants to hear the music better.

He doesn't even notice he's about to fall into the deep river.

**/Norway POV\\\**

He curses himself as he tries to find his brother. Iceland had lost him a little while back – who knew his brother could run so fast? His brother … There's so much he doesn't know about the man … Maybe they can still clear things up? Maybe he can still help Iceland? He just needs to make Iceland understand.

Finally, he sees his brother … but fear grips his heart at who else he sees. The river sprite, Nøkk. He runs as fast as he can, calling his brother's name – both country and human. Neither stirs the man from his trance. He, too, can hear the fiddle, but he's the country of Norway; the creatures here do not affect him as they do everyone else.

His brother – he's too close to the river! No! He won't lose him again! He won't! He's finally within reaching distance, pulls his brother away from the river. Iceland struggles to get away, resisting him. He calls his brother's name; said man doesn't react to it. His eyes are glazed over, he stares into the space ahead of him, trying desperately to escape.

He looks over at the water sprite, yells at him, "Forsvinn! Du skal ikke drukne han! La han være!" The Nøkk glares at him before shifting into a white horse and galloping away, presumably to find another victim.

Yet his brother still struggles against his grasp. His eyes are not glazed over, he twitches when his name is said, but yet he continues to fight. Norway doesn't understand. The river sprite is gone. Why –

"I wish I had drowned," Iceland sobs. "Anything is better than a life without Lukas."

He's horrified. He's saved Iceland from one of his creatures, but how does he save the man from himself? He's already failed once, who's to say he won't fail again? No, he can't think like that!

"Iceland, think about what you're saying," he's trying to keep his voice calm, but it ends up being just as emotional as his brother's.

"I am. I'm done thinking. I'm done living. Especially with _you_."

He winces. He needs to make his brother understand – he has to. "Iceland, you're my brother, I don't want to lose you again – please, please, just – let's talk about this."

"Let's me make this clear," Iceland trembles. "Ég hata þig, _onii-chan_."

Before he knows what's happening, he's on the ground, pain between his legs and – is that blood beside his head? He has a headache – his head is pounding. He can't think – what's happe –

Iceland!

**/Iceland POV\\\**

In a panic and desperate need to get away, he knees the imposter in the crotch, no regrets, as hard as he can. While the man is bent over in pain, he frees his arm and brings his elbow sharply against the blonde's temple. He kicks the man's legs out from underneath him, kicks his head, and turns to the water.

If he can't have Lukas, he doesn't want to live.

And he jumps.

**/Norway POV\\\**

As he slowly realizes what's happened, he jumps unsteadily to his feet, dizzy, and stumbles to the edge of the river. He needs to find his brother. Running on pure adrenaline, he leaps into the river, tries to find his brother, sees a ways down, grabs him, drags him up to the surface even as he sees dark spots across his vision, somehow gets them both onto dry land, checks the man's pulse – none – CPR – nothing – not working – collapses – cries –

His brother is dead.

Not just brain dead.

Dead.

He's crying, muttering to himself. "Nei...min bror... stakkars bror..." He lies his head on Iceland's chest, grabs the man's shirt in his fists, sobs the hardest he's ever sobbed.

What does he do? He needs comfort. He needs to spread the word. He needs – he doesn't know what he needs. He grabs his cell phone – miraculously still working – dials the first number he thinks of. Denmark picks up. As soon as he speaks, the Dane hangs up.

Perhaps – perhaps his other brother? Vinland … Canada? He dials the number – why does he have it? – but Canada is quickly distracted by America and hangs up. He cries. He's been replaced as a brother, too. That's America's job.

He's alone.

He kisses Iceland chastely on the lips, shakily takes his knife to his wrists. He needs control. This time, the control won't leave him. It'll be permanent. No one else will leave him. No one else. He won't let them.

So he cuts, deep, deep, until there's blood everywhere, and he can't think, doesn't want to think. He collapses onto Iceland, buries his head on the man's chest, waits for his life to end.

OoOoOo

**In my headcanon, a nation can die if he commits suicide. Iceland tried to commit suicide in the first story, but ultimately it was Norway who sent him into a brain-dead state, so it didn't count. Just making sure I don't get reviews saying 'nations can't die!' **

**Also, I have no idea how brain activity is monitored. So I'm pretending it's similar to a heart monitor. **

**I'm pretty sure I've said this before, but I'm not a romance writer. I actually really, really don't like romances (unless they're onesided and angsty like this, haha). I'll read them, but, it's not my favorite. Also, I've never experienced any kind of love myself, so I don't know if I do that correctly or not. *headdesk***

**You guys should know by now that I don't write happy endings. And ridiculously long author's notes.**

**Translations: (thank you to **TheJennyFromIceland** and **Vivaldian**!)**

**Jeg er lei meg, Island! Jeg er lei meg! Kom tilbake! Du kan gjør det. Du allerede gjør det.** **Jeg elsker deg. Jeg elsker deg. = I'm sorry, Iceland! I'm so sorry! Please come back! You can do it. You're already doing it. I love you. I love you. **_**(Norwegian)**_

**Ekki gráta, ástin mín. Það er allt í lagi með mig. Sérðu? Ég er hérna. = Don't cry, my love. I am fine. See? I am here. **_**(Icelandic)**_

**Komdu og sofðu við hliðina á mér.** **= Come sleep beside me. **_**(Icelandic)**_

**Góðann daginn.** **= Good morning. **_**(Icelandic)**_

**God morgen = Good morning. **_**(Norwegian)**_

**Þú ert svo fallegur. = You're so beautiful **_**(Icelandic)**_

**Á fleiri en einn hátt. = In more than one way **_**(Icelandic)**_

**Du virker trøt****… **_**elskling … **_**= You look tired … **_**love**_** … **_**(Norwegian)**_

**Norge = Norway **_**(Norwegian, Danish)**_

**Ísland = Iceland **_**(Norwegian, Danish)**_

**Danmark = Denmark **_**(Norwegian)**_

**Ekki það sem mér finnst? Ekki það sem mér finnst? Það er nú frekar ljóst fyrir mér að þú ert lygari - það... þá... nei... ég get ekki verið kominn til baka, ég get ekki verið kominn til baka!** **= Not what I think? Not what I think? It looks clear to me that you're a liar – that … then … no … I can't be back, I can't be back! **_**(Icelandic)**_

**Hvað hef ég gert? Hvað hefur þú gert?** **= What have I done? What have you done? **_**(Icelandic)**_

**Þú ert ekkert eins og Lúkas.** **= You're nothing like Lukas. **_**(Icelandic)**_

**Ég hata þig.** **= I hate you. **_**(Icelandic)**_

**Forsvinn! Du skal ikke drukne han! La han være! = Leave! You will not drown him! Let him be! I command you! **_**(Norwegian)**_

**Nei...min bror... stakkars bror** **...** **= No … my brother … my poor little brother … **_**(Norwegian)**_

**Nøkk = A Norwegian river sprite that takes the form of either a fiddler, an island, or a white horse that drowns people (through its music (not sure how that works), not sure what the island does, and dragging it down, in that order) (I don't know anything about the Nøkk except the very basics, so I pretended it's like a Greek siren/siryn, plus my own ideas.)**


End file.
